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PLACE D'ARMES AND 
OTHER POEMS 



CHARLES CHASE LOOMIS 



NEW ORLEANS 

American Printing' Company, Limited 

1904 






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DEC 29 J9U4 \\ 



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Copvng'iii tntry 



| CLASS ^ XXc. Pio; | 
copy b. 



COPYRIGHTED 1904 BY AMERICAN PRINTING CO.. Ltd. 
All Rights Reserved. 



BOOK ONE. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



/ 



PLACE D'ARMES. 

Like a Spanish maiden glowing 
O'er the balcony and throwing 
Passion-laden glances at the lover at her feet — 
Little feet — 
Lies the garden efflorescent, 
Amid shadows sere, senescent, 
Prom flowers in her bosom shedding perfume o'er the 
street. 

Here the blare and bluster 
Of drum and trumpet muster 

Called the Creole chivalry clamorous to war — 
Red-visaged war- 
Quelling and repelling 
The horde of painted, yelling, 

Savages descending from hunting-grounds afar. 

Oft the Dons beruffled, 

And swarthy bravoes muffled, 
Wandered hither in their lordly Spanish way — 
Haughty way — 

Senors and senoritas, 

Pablos, Pedros and Perditas, 
Promenading and parading in that fair colonial day. 



FKOM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

When the last notes of the choir 
Uprose on wings of fire, 
And home the white-robed worshipers their holy les- 
son bore — 

Meekly bore- 
Frothing, foaming, fretting, 
Caracolling and curvetting, 
Came the gallant cavaliers past the Cathedral door. 

Oft the merry demoiselles, 

Maries, Jacquelines, Bstelles, 
Down this fragrant pathway coquettishly did pass— • 
Alack, alas! — 

While the red sun, slowly sinking, 

Kissed their foreheads — lightly linking 
Sylph-like shadows gliding o'er the grass. 

Now in this fair domain, 
Rendezvous of France and Spain, 
On a plunging charger, sits a soldier gaunt and 
grim — 

Bronzed and grim — 
While dewy roses blowing 
Round the pedestal are throwing, 
From bosoms brightly glowing, perennial incense up 
to him. 

On that furrowed forehead 

Invasion, huge, abhorred, 
Lowered unrelenting o'er the city gates — 
Open gates — 

Straight he faced the dread disaster: 

(Iron horse and iron master) 
Breathless the encounter Andromeda awaits. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. ( 

Then the concentrated power 
Of those features in that hour, 
Burst and rolled above the foemen in his wrath — ■ 
Leaden wrath — 
From his breastworks lightnings leaping, 
(Oh, the dying! Oh, the weeping!) 
Swept the wreck of armies in a whirlwind from his 
path. 

Now the fiery charger, rearing, 
Bears the soldier never fearing, 
Motionless through wind and rain- — 
Leaden rain — 
While the sparrows downward flitting 
On his bridle reins are sitting, 
And their sweetest music making in the meshes of his 
mane. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. 

The gray moss hangs like paupers' rags upon the 

hoary tree 
That stretches out a withered arm above the silent 

sea, 
While past yon bearded sentinel in meditation grave, 
The sinuous bayou crawling thrusts its tongue into 

the wave. 
The slender curlew stalks amid the debris on the 

moor, 
The stilted heron lightly treads the shifting sands se- 
cure; 
Silence, like a mantle falling from the shoulders of 

the Night, 
Is rent by the shrieking of the bittern in its flight; 
Where slim young snipe are dancing on a polished 

waxen floor, 
The sudden dip of a snowy wing in sluggish ripples 

seeks the shore. 

Where yonder distant strand in wavering mist re- 
cedes, 
By plashing waves, the timid wind is sobbing 'mid 

the reeds, 
And there, where tides receding slow the dank sands 

nightly lave, 
Unmarked by human hands, lies a solitary grave. 
'Tis said a drowned mariner, beneath the moon's cold 

rays, 
Stalks that still shore remote, a paler shade in that 

dim haze. 
There damp seaweed cast sprawling on the yellow 

sands aground 
Clings like dripping garments to the bosoms of the 

drowned, 
And from the surge that crawls each night under the 

drooping trees 



I ROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 9 

Skeleton fingers issuing clutch the treasure of the 

seas. 
Ah! many a solemn token 'neath yon rising moon 

serene, 
In the flotsam and the jetsam, the creeping tide hath 

seen. 

A lighthouse like a sheeted ghost a-stalking o'er the 

sea; 
A little yacht with sails inert, a skiff adrift to lee — 
Where yonder dark receding shore is etched upon 

the wave, 
That skiff, impelled by veering tides, is drifting to 

that grave, 
And motionless upon the prow a fair girl all in white 
Serenely stands with clasped hands alone in the pale 

moonlight, 
Stands like a statue deified and poising there for 

flight. 

Was it a hand that beckoned from yon translucent 

wave? 
A pallid hand, a shriveled hand, thrust from a limpid 

grave ? 
Over the placid waters the skiff drives out to sea, 
The yacht hath furled her white wings beside the 

silent quay. 
The lighthouse, like a sentinel above a sleeping host, 
Stands guard o'er cypress regiments encamped along 

the coast, 
While over the level waters a skiff adrift to lee 
Pauses in the beacon light and sweeps slowly out to 

sea. 

Where the damp seaweed is sprawling on the yellow 
sands aground. 

The little waves are weeping with a mournful, rhyth- 
mic sound, 



10 FROM THE RIVEK TO THE LAKE. 

While two tall breakers seek the shore with the bur- 
den they have found. 

Ah! many a solemn token, 'neath yon waning moon 
serene, 

In the flotsam and the jetsam, the creeping tide hath 
seen. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 11 



ON THE REEF. 

Flow, flow, flow, O waters uncontrolled! 
With tremulous beat and slow, 
Like the pulse of a world in woe, 
'Neath the pallid moon in the West a-swoon with 
visage clear and cold. 
Heavily to and fro sweeps the sullen undertow 
Where hollow hours are tolling on jagged rocks 
below. 

Dash, dash, dash, like a sentient thing in grief! 
While salt seas sobbing plash 
O'er bearded rocks in the flash 
That leaps like a sword on the cowering horde and 
driveth them over the reef. 
Lo, the pale moon dropped her silken sash 
Athwart a vessel leaping where horned billows 
clash. 

Weep, weep, weep, O waters sweeping slow! 
For still and white in his sleep. 
Amid weltering weeds at neap, 
A mariner bides where restless tides are stealthily 
creeping to and fro, 
While the moon like a sickle comes out to reap 
The golden grain on the shining steep. 



12 FROM TJIE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

THE TRAITOR'S SOUL. 

Beyond the Throne of God, 

Stretched to the westward many leagues 

A sombre plain; upon its utmost verge 

A swollen river swept tumultuous 

To sunless seas. 

Beside the stream an angel stood, impassive, 

Broad of brow and leonine. 

To him came one of gentle mien and said: 

"Take thou this Child-Soul from my sheltering arms; 

There is a stain, a little stain, upon it; 

(Tarnished, perhaps, by some base thought, 

As when a light breath on a mirror falls) ; 

A little stain, yet thou shalt make it 

Crystal clear." 

She gave the Child-Soul to him tenderly. 

Straightway he plunged his right arm 'neath the wave, 

Then laid his stainless burden in her arms, 

Who hastened o'er the sombre plain 

Back to the Throne of God. 

Thereafter came an endless train of souls. 

The weltering, red soul of Murder, 

And the scarlet soul of the Adulteress; 

The Miser's narrow soul sclerotic, 

And the oedematous soul of Lechery; 

Hypocrisy's soft soul gelatinous, 

And after these a motley crew. 

Faltering they came to the impassive one, 

Who plunged them deep into the stream, 

Whence issuing, stainless and serene, 

They trooped, exultant, to the Throne of God. 

All — all save one. 

The impassive angel shrank from contact 

With the blackened thing, 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 13 

The raven shrieked upon the nether shore, 

The bark upon the shriveled oak 

Released its fangs, and down the naked stem 

Rolled sap like blood; 

The river flowed not to the sea, 

But, like a giant's arm, stiffened across the plain 

And grasped its source, 

While battening wolves, with snap and snarl, 

Gathered above the Traitor's soul. 



14 i-ROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



THE FALL OF THE BASTILLE. 

There was a tower, a massive tower, 

One hundred years ago — 
The sands of Time with that returning hour 

Are running low, 
While spectral hosts with silent tread 
Troop to the bivouac of Freedom's dead. 
Like squadrons of the sky return 
The actors of that drama stern, 

Relentless, yet sublime; 
'Gainst pride and bigotry arrayed, 
By shrieking nations undismayed, 

They fought a sceptered crime. 
When Bastille's stones leapt up in air 
And Revolution's ruddy glare 

Tinged Heaven's wide expanse, 
Obscure they came with soul to dare 

The destiny of France, 
And though she turned on them the steel, 

Commanded the advance. 

Great Danton like a Titan looms 

Through the gathering mist, 
And Mirabeau light-hearted comes 

Like a lover to his tryst; 
And Thuriot, who struck the blow 

That shook the startled Earth, 
When kings aghast saw harvests grow 
On barren fields that turned and, lo! 

Gave armies birth; 
And Vergniaud, who for Freedom wrought, 

And Isnard eloquent, 
And Condorcet, the Man of Thought, 

With brows in study bent; 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 15 

St. Just, that walks where Furies wheel, 

Calm, passionless, 
With eyes as cold as serried steel, 
That pierce the oppressors till they feel 

The sword upon their bosoms press. 
Justice incarnate, without appeal, 
On that forehead sets her seal — 
The iron hand that lifts the standard in the rain 
And leads the broken lines upon the foe again, 
And the lion heart that strives no less 
Though all the world should curse or bless. 

Thus drift the shades supernal past 

The site of sceptered crime, 
And wait the hour returning fast 

Upon the wings of Time, 
That flung in every trumpet blast 

The tocsin's jangled chime, 
And in the soldier's dying breath 

Rung through every clime: 
'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death — " 

O syllables sublime! 

Lo, through the slowly shifting mist 

A gloomy tower appears, 
While spectral pulses bound amain 

With human hopes and fears, 
For once again, in terror and pain, 

Is enacted the scene of a hundred years. 

Before them rise the massive towers 

Of Bastille gray and grim; 
Crouching at its feet, the power 

That shall rend it limb from limb, 
Demands the castle of the king, 
And gathers for the spring. 



FROM THE R1VE1L TO THE LAKE. 



Then the tocsin fiercely screaming, 
Like an eagle, 'mid the gleaming 

Sword and bayonet. 
Proclaims to Europe's serfs despairing: 
"By yon zenith flaming, flaring, 

The Monarch and the Man have met!" 
Then, awful birth of that wild hour, 
The Wo of Ages rises and hovers o'er the tower. 

Hark, from St. Antoine's famished throat, 
The shriek of vengeance rising strikes De Launay 
o'er the moat: 
"Strike! for the hour we waited 

Rings from the tower elated — 

The streets are saturated — 

The cities walled and gated; 

The prisons barred and grated 

Swing on their hinges hated: 

The Kings of Earth are fated- 
Strike! Strike! Strike!" 

And high above that sharp refrain 
The sullen cannon rolls amain: 
"Roar! Roar! Roar! 

O Voice of the voiceless class! 
Speak the wrongs that we endure 
Thou fervid orator of the poor! 

O, Thunderer, open thy lips of brass! 
Roar! Roar! Roar! beneath the tricolor, 

And plunge again thy red tongue in the mass!" 

Then Thuriot, who dared to go 
And walk with Treachery to and fro 

And awe it with his glance, 
Gazes on the drifting mist 

And murmurs: " 'Twas for France!" 



FROM THE RIVEK TO THE LAKE. 17 



And pausing here the grim Robespierre 

Looks pensive on the mass, 
And starts aghast with sudden fear 

As his headless victims pass; 
Then, with brow serene and vision clear, 

He turns a steady glance 
Upon the slowly shifting scene, 

And mutters: " 'Twas for France." 

Then the Bride of Tyrannicide, 

Charlotte Corday, with intrepid glance. 

By the Roland in her pride, 

The fair Girondist deified, 

Murmurs low: "I, too, have died — 
I, too, have died — for France!" 

See her Victim squirming, squalid. 

On the shrinking shades advance; 
Lifts his face uncouth and pallid, 

Proudly answers: "'Twas for France." 

Then Hoche — who bore the shock 

Of chivalry in arms, 
And leonine upon the Rhine 
Struck the haughty Prussian line, 

Tne Austrian swarms, 
And bleeding, prone, supine, 

Hurled the Triple Alliance 

From the holy soil of France — 
Speaks unto the shades: 

"Comrades, that great hour returning, 

One hundred years ago, 
When France, the Tyrant's shackles spurning, 

Sprang to Freedom at a blow. 
Wrings mv heart with solemn yearning 

Of my country's fate to know." 



IS FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

Then said de l'lsle with humid eyes: 
"They died for naught, the brave, the wise, 
If still beneath a royal sway 
My country languishes to-day." 

Muttered Danton, like a cloud 
Hovering there, heavy-browed: 
"0 France! Thy destiny I know it not; 

I think of thee with dread; 
But thou art free, for on this sacred spot 

No tyrant's emblem rears its hated head." 

Then rose a cry, like Ocean in its power, 

In tones that swell and flow: 
"There's not a stone upon a stone where stood that 
massive tower, 
One hundred years ago." 
July 14, 1889. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 19 



THE VIKING'S DAUGHTER. 

Under the moon the waters rose, 
Like the breast of a woman in love, I said; 

Over the sands the waters moaned, 
Like the voice of a woman for one that's dead. 

The full moon swung up the eastern quarter, 
Across the wave the mast fell shorter, 
Spake I then to the Viking's daughter; 
"Lo, where the Lady in White is paling! 

Knee-deep in the red wave walketh she — 
By long black ships on the horizon sailing. 
Like a spectre slips, with tresses trailing, 

The pallid moon afar to lee — 
(Twas only the desolate curlew wailing) 

Come and: wade in the shimmering sea." 
We stepped into the quiet water, 
The sea-weed's long, brown fingers caught her 

And the salt spray kissed her lips for me, 
She turned to the shore with a little cry, 

But her gown was wet as the waves that flee; 
And she blushed like a sea-shell 'neath mine eye — ■ 

Like a tinted shell in a summer sea. 

The moon looked down upon the restless foam, 
The yearning sea looked up into her face, 

And stretched his mighty limbs to rise and roam. 
Alone beside her in the realms of space. 

Uprose the tide that silent night, 

To east, to west, cut off retreat; 
To north, to south, restrained our flight — 

The deadly circle was complete. 
White was her face in the white moonlight, 

Lithe was her form in the arms of the sea, 



20 FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

When the creeping tide, with Death allied, 

Came 'round the headlands three, 
The treacherous tide that doth abide 
Where swirling currents deep divide 

Beside the headlands three. 
Her heart, beneath her warm wet gown, 

A startled dove, white-winged, beat 
Restraining bars of drapery down 

Prom fluttering pinions fleet, 
While clear in the depths, where sea-sands frown, 
And star-fish cling to grasses brown, 

Wavered the white reflection of her feet. 
cruel Sea! 

Of mist and spray weave a garment gray, 

And bear her resistless away! away! 
Where she sways in her gown like a ghost in a sheet. 
Shyly she turned her face from me — 
('Twas a treacherous tide by headlands three) 
Forward she fell in the arms of the sea! 



The hooded waves clomb up the western wall. 

Where the white moon slept in the pulseless sky, 
And the curlew circled with desolate call, 

As they dragged her under the reef to die. 

Out of the water I bore her form, 

And she turned and spoke to me. 
And I'll swear that her fluttering heart was warm, 

Though her gown was wet as the waves that flee. 
I saw the fear on her stiffened face, 

And I kissed her beside the remorseless sea, 
And her pallid lips in that embrace 

Blushed hot and trembled for love of me 
And I knew it was love, for her eyes were bright, 

Bright as the glassy sea! 
Her hair lay out on the damp sea sands, 



FROM THE EIVEE TO THE LAKE. 21 

The moon had none so bright — 
Over her breast I folded; her hands, 

For she lay asleep that night. 
Now I say that her fluttering heart was warm, 

Though her gown was wet as the waves that flee, 
And when out of the water I bore her form 

I'll swear she turned and spoke to me, 
And her eyes all night gleamed with a love-light 

Bright as the glassy sea! 

Under the moon the waters rose, 
Like the breast of a woman in love, I said; 

Over the sands the waters moaned, 

Like the voice of a woman for one that's dead. 



22 FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

THE WALLS OF ACRE. 

Long 'fore the walls of Acre the Christian hosts had 

stood, 
Long down the walls of Acre had streamed the good 

knights' hlood, 
But hosts and blood availed not, the Saracens Acre 

held, 
And Saladin's dusky warriors in ancient Acre dwelled, 
With envious hearts the Allies lay embattled side 

by side, 
The chivalry of France in hate, the English knights 

in pride. 

One morn, while trolls a troubadour a blithesome 

roundelay, 
Through all the ranks the rumor flies that England 

will essay 
A grand assault where France hath failed, routed 

but yesterday. 
Proud pennons fly from squadrons stern that form 

upon the plain, 
The archers, with a ringing shout, drive the arrowy 

rain, 
The Saracens, upon the walls, shrink from that iron 

hail, 
And many a link Damascus forged, is broken on their 

mail. 

Then the crescent from each turban casts a baleful 
gleam 

O'er swaying plumes that toss like flotsam in a 
stream; 

The knights fall back from the scimeter, their battle- 
shout is low, 

And the gallant column wavers as they charge upon 
the foe. 

Backward down the massive walls roll Richard's 
arms and men, 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



And the Arabian Lion holds the Arabian Den; 

The Saracen is triumphant, his sword bleeds on his 

thigh; 
Lowering at the unshaken base the baffled Britons lie. 

Then France, the lilies to the fore, advances her 
array, 

To charge amain where England failed, failed utterly 
to-day. 

The heavy rams their knotted horns on the em- 
brasures fling, 

While lance and axe and javelin down the battlements 
ring, 

But the Saracen's arm is powerful, the Saracen's 
blade is keen, 

And dusky reapers in the ranks of Gaul a golden 
harvest glean. 

Then falters France and English bows have kissed 

the arrow head, 
When lo, the broken column wheels and charges o'er 

its dead! 
Straight to the wall their banners fly like eagles in 

the blast — 
Behold, a Frenchman's foot is set upon the parapet 

at last! 

High on the walls a red cross gleams before the 
infidel— 

Behind him lies the murky trench; before, the gates 
of hell. 

Then Frank and Saxon vying spring upon the lad- 
der's rounds — 

A thrill of horror through the ranks like Autumn 
winds resounds, 

For that frail fabric, armor-laden, swings trembling 
on the stone, 

Then plunges into the trench below and the hero 
stands alone. 



24 FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

THE WOOING OF THE WINDS. 

Oh, the West Wind was a rover and he blustered low 
and high, 

Descending on the canyons from a tempest-stricken 
sky, 

But the South Wind like a lady passed, the rich 
magnolia bloom 

Permeating her light garments with a tropical per- 
fume. 

The West Wind like a monarch bore a dark, im- 
perial cloud 

Floating from his shoulders high, while courtier 
saplings bowed, 

But the South Wind, in the gardens of her odorous 
domain, 

'Mid rustling grasses fluttered like a floweret in the 
rain. 

Now the West Wind, though a boisterous wind, was 

tender to excess — 
With the riven oak prone at his feet, he kissed the 

water-cress — 
But the South Wind., though she loved him, feared 

the violence and might 
Which broke the barriers of her land like straws 

that stormy night, 

When the West Wind, on a foray, hurling far an icy 
lance 

Across the ramparts mountainous impeding his ad- 
vance, 

Gaunt peaks and bowlders challenged, crying: 
"Southward the swallow flies; 

There dwelleth a lady fair, most fair! Who sayeth 
nay — he dies!" 



FKOM THE KIVEB TO THE LAKE. 



Then the South Wind, though a gentle wind, con- 
quered well her fears 

And met him on the battlements, her eyes suffused 
with tears; 

And the lion-hearted West Wind in the tempest 
shrank dismayed 

From her white anger virginal, keener than a foe- 
man's blade. 

Sullenly he turned, retreating, and crossed the purple 

hills, 
Calling in his fierce retainers, Strangling Mist and 

Frost-that-Kills. 
All the flowers in that garden, drooping, furled their 

bannered pride — 
Though the South Wind, weeping, to her bosom held 

them long, they died. 

Now the West Wind, though he loves her well, in- 
vades her lands no more, 

But often, in the twilight, sighs "I love you," at her 
door; 

Then the South Wind, in her garden fair, smiling, 
murmurs low: 

"I love you, too, West Wind, but that you'll never 
know." 



26 FKOM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 

THE PANOPLY OF WOE. 

I. 

There is a House. 

No laughter echoes in those walls; 
No blaze upon a hearth-stone falls; 
A lizard o'er the portal flits, 
And Sorrow in chat chamber sits 
With ashen brow and heart of stone, 
A sightless spectre on a granite throne. 
Twenty years by the glass of Time! 
Youth! O Love! O Life sublime! 
When the Earth on its axis turned to a rhyme 
Of Beauty and Truth, and Duty forsooth, 
And strong arms played the chime. 

II. 

There is a Carriage. 

mighty snulh, weld bolt and bar 
In the forge that turned the sword of War, 
For the blade that thrives on human lives 
That Carriage ever follo-ws afar. 

Forty years by the glass of Time! 

Manhood's prime! 

O Woman's lips and finger tips! 

Love, pure as Truth and strong as Crime, 

And deep as the ocean that slips by the ships, 

Sparkling, illusive, illimitable, sublime. 

III. 
There is a Robe. 

Stern Sisters three with brows of lead. 
Pondering o'er the yellow thread, 
Out of the warp and woof of life, 
(Stand ready, sister, with the knife) 
Weave the garment of the Dead. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 27 

Sixty years by the glass of Time! 

O keen-scythed, winged mime, 

Toll! toll! toll! for the sweetest woman's soul 

That cheered him faltering on his way 

Hath left him desolate to-day. 

IV. 

The Man hath fallen prone in his hall, 

The hour is twelve by the clock on the wall, 

'Tis night by the silence over all — 

Prepare, prepare, the House awaits, 

The Carriage is pacing to the gates, 

And the sable Robe is spun by the sombre Fates. 



2S FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



THE WHITE WONDER. 

Out of the East the Lady came, 

Gentle and fragile ana white; 
Her footsteps were fleet as the feet of the flame, 

And her touch imperceptibly light; 
Like a strange bird driven out of its course 

She fluttered down in our sight. 

Her paiai cheek lo the cheek of the rose, 

Stooping, she tenderly laid, 
While every tropical plant that grows, 

By sunshine deserted, betrayed, 
Welcomed the stranger most beautiful 

To a couch in the everglade. 

The tall magnoda brid hev long 

In the clasp of his royal boughs, 
But her supple limbs were lithe and strong 

With the strength that youth endows, 
And she slipped from his arms with a scornful smile. 

And a frown on her pallid brows. 

The violet sighed: "0 lady fair, 

Pause in thy wanderings fleet; 
With thy chill brow no brow can compare, 

There's naught so light as thy light feet 
That pass in silence through the glade, 

Like shadows passing o'er the wheat." 

The cactus caught the folds of her gown, 

Striving to stay her flight; 
With many a thorn he pinned her down, 

But she struggled with all her might, 
Till the shreds of her robe were scattered far, 

Like shreds of the pale moonlight. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 29 

And so the refulgent L,ady came. 

Gentle and fragile and white — 
With footsteps as fleet as the feet of the flame, 

She passed from our lingering sight; 
Passed out in her beauty and pallor and pride, 

Passed out in the arms of the Night. 



30 FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



TO THE DEFENDER. 

Lo! from the Viking's land descends 

A Viking craft that flaunts 
A Viking name, which fitly blends 

With England's boastful taunts, 
Flung in the teeth of every breeze, 
Of "Mistress of the Seas." 

How flutter the fleets along the coast, 

How scurry the white wings to and fro — 

Is there none in all the Yankee host 
To cross the line, blow high, blow low, 

With the Viking craft of the Viking name 

In a struggle to death for deathless fame? 

By the shades of Decatur and John Paul Jones 

A glorious answer we tender, 
And kings that look down from perilous thrones 

On the dauntless and peerless Defender, 
An omen of evil to Valkyrie read 
In outlines of beauty and power and speed. 

How Valkyrie swooped like a hawk on the line 

Will oft be related in story, 
While Defender outpointing and spurning the brine 

Leaped to the front with Old Glory, 
In the teeth of the wind with the foeman to lee, 
The starter behind and before her the sea. 

Then Valkyrie baffled in crossing our bow. 

Fell back in the gloom of defeat, 
To leeward, astern, with glistening prow 

She followed Defender the fleet; 
And the first encounter was won 
By Defender, swiftest yacht under the sun. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



Now the Viking craft of the Viking name 
Was a thing of beauty from mast-head to keel; 

Close were the rivals when "about" she came 
Striking Defender with boom of steel, 

And the crippled boat fell back a pace, 

Then, staggering on, continued the race. 

In Greece the lamed runner continued to run; 

In Greece the maimed boxer fought on to the last. 
The Olympiads' racers and ours are one 

In the name of the yacht with the stricken mast, 
In the name of the cripple that staggered home, 
Gaining fast andi flecked with foam. 

The last race, the challenger, sulking, declined, 

Refusing the victor to meet; 
And leaving as record of prowess behind, 

Defeat, and a foul and retreat; 
And the races were won 
By Defender, fleetest yacht under the sun. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



EBB AND FLOW. 

Last night this land-locked bay. 
Hollowed through tedious centuries, 
And like a flagon set before the hills, 
Spilled o'er the fields its brimming waves, 
Where still the seaweed glistens 'mid the grain 
Like lees upon a Viking's beard. 

To-day, where erst some sylvan deity, 
In coy reluctance, on the ragged edge 
Of plashing waters stood, a little foot 
Thrust timorously into the wave, 
In solemn dignity, on one long leg. 
The stork maintains his equilibrium. 
Stranded weeds lie gasping on the shore 
Where bronzed sands frown at the burning sun, 
While the snaky bayou drags its folds 
Through reedy beds to glide unseen 
Into the shrinking sea. 



FROM THE RIVER TO THE LAKE. 



IN MEMORY OF LIEUTENANT GRUBBS. 

O men of Hood's Regiment, hark to the cable! 

It cries to us out of the wide ocean's bed; 
"War is uncertain, life is unstable, 

Our comrade, our dauntless young comrade is dead!' 

Gladly we followed him, loved and revered him; 

He was our Mentor, our hero, our pride; 
None but the foe and the recreant feared him — 

With his face to the foe unyielding he died. 

Farewell to the brave — nevermore shall his sabre 
Leap from its sheath at the ringing command; 

In the forefront of battle he finished his labor, 
And died for the flag with his sword in his hand. 



34 FROM THE KIVEB TO THE LAKE. 



THE BREAKING OF THE MIST. 

Across Night's murky battlements, 

A long lance leaps through sable rents — 

The Lord of Day afar hath struck his shining tents. 

By slumbering shadows on the steeps, 

By vapors where the ebb-tide creeps, 

The Spirit of the Mist with trailing garments sweeps. 

Breaking on her silvery feet, 
Her cinctured gown flows down to meet 
The waves that clasp and cover them with kisses 
sweet. 

Diaphanous she stands afar. 

Where breakers moan upon the bar; 

Where the Day God passeth in panoply of war. 

A faint pink tinge illuminates 

Her garment's hem, the while she waits 

The radiant Dawn, her lover, at the gates. 

An arm of light about her thrown 
Clasps the girdle of her yielding zone — 
The Lord of Day hath come, hath come to claim his 
own. 



BOOK TWO. 



ARROWS OF CUPID, 



THE THREE ARCHERS. 

A Grecian temple, cool, and vast and dim. 

Stood, ages since, remote in classic shades, 
While faint reverberations of a hymn 

Fluttered round tall Ionic colonnades. 

The chiseled altar's pure, pale, lambent flame 
Flickered o'er misty aisles and vacant space. 

When lorn, disconsolate, soul-stricken, came 
A gentle lady to that holy place. 

That pensive hour to her doth softly tell 
Of one beloved who, lingering long 

By Dian's temple, kissed her lips farewell, 
And fell in conflict with a sceptered Wrong. 

The sacred hind, reposing there forlorn, 
Nestled its timid head upon her breast; 

That captive dreaming of a mountain tarn, 
That lady fair desiring only rest. 

There was a rush of winged steeds contending. 

A hoof-beat on the moonlit architrave, 
As Apollo's chariot swift descending 

Brushed that white temple silent as the grave. 



38 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



Within, ihe echo of light sandaled feet, 

The sibilant, low rustling of a gown, 
Arose as, that bright visitor to greet, 

Artemis from her pedestal came down. 

Their discourse ran of the Olympian court, 
Of Jove's transgressions and Procrustes' cot, 

Of young Adonis, lately killed at sport, 
And Mercury's bon mot on Psyche's knot. 

Approaching Archery's entrancing lore, 
Long they boasted of their prowess dread — 

Though Eros could not hit the fretted door 
Of an Athenian palace, Dian said. 

An arrow splintered on the altar there, 

A vibrant bow-string sang like love confessed; 

Another pierced the circumambient air, 
Softly the bow-string sighed like love suppressed; 

Advancing, Cupid, stung by Dian's taunt, 

Unembarrassed by a costume meagre 
As bold Leander's in the Hellespont, 

Thus addressed the twain with accents eager: 

"Great Archer of the Dawn's resplendent skies! 

sanguinary Lady of the Chase! 
Know he who cannot hit a door defies 

Ye to the contest- — this the time and place." 

A golden missile, lithe and keen and bright, 
Apollo, smiling, on his bow-string laid; 

Straightway that arrow, leaping through the night, 
Down starry courses like a meteor swayed. 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 30 



Said he: "From Erebus' grim gates ajar, 
Returning straight, that flaming dart so fleet 

Shall break the gray horizon's rigid bar. 
And fall, fair lady, by thy sandaled feet." 

Loud laughed the hardy Huntress then in scorn, 
"Tame, tame, indeed, the sport, my brother brave; 

The exultation of the shrill-blown horn, 
The rapture of the antlered chase I crave!" 

Then, to the arrow, as her bow-string twanged: 
"That creature of the chase by field or flood 

Thou flndest first, tusked boar or black wolf fanged, 
Bathe thy long low forehead in its blood." 

The sacred hind, reposing there forlorn, 

Beside that dart sank down with ebbing breath, 

As her freed spirit to a mountain tarn 
Exulting fled upon the wings of Death. 

Young Cupid then, with anger-flashing eyes, 
Spake to the barbed shaft upon his bow: 

"A wounded heart upon the greensward lies: 

Deepen that wound till the life blood shall flow." 

That lady, dreaming 'neath the pallid moon 
Of happiness from her young life departed, 

Caressed Love's fatal dart as, in a swoon, 
She sank and died there broken-hearted. 

Now, since that night, the immortals say: 

"Who laughs at love should laugh exceeding low, 

For that which sometimes kills a mortal may 
Severely wound a deity, you know." 



40 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



CUPID DISARMED. 

Cupid once lay wrapped in slumber, 
Dreaming, deep in asphodel, 

While a troop of maidens gathered 
Round the cherub hated well. 

Purple hung the sky above him, 
While the meadow flowers grew, 

Pressed by that young form recumbent. 
More intensely bright in hue. 

"Lightly slumbers now the Tyrant," 
Winsome Nellie whispered low; 

"In his cheeks transparent roses," 
Murmured Clara, "come and go." 

"In bis curls the winds are sighing— 
Is that dread bow made of yew?" 

Queried Jess, while Ida whispered: 
"I have heard his eyes are blue." 

Then these Amazons remembered 
All the wrongs which they endured. 

All the wounds that bow inflicted — 
Wounds which never might be cured. 

Not a heart among these maidens 
But had bled by those keen darts. 

So the cry arose quite fiercely, 
"Kill him, for his wicked arts!" 

Queenly Alice stole the dread bow. 
Lightly from his nerveless hand: 

Isabelle, within her bosom 
Hid the darts none might withstand. 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 41 



Rudely then they woke the victim. 
Shook his shoulders gleaming white, 

Though, 'tis said, their fingers trembled, 
And a mist obscured their sight. 

Cupid rose in deep amazement, 
Sought his peerless bow in vain, 

Clinched his little hands in anger, 
As he turned upon the train: 

"Give me that weapon, Alice, child! 

How could you be so stupid?" 
Miss Alice dropped the bow and cried: 

"Don't be angry with me, Cupid." 



42 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



THE YELLOW DRAUGHT. 

There is a crystal chalice brimming with rare old 

wine, 
And he who, thirsting, quaffs it, in a stupor half 

divine 
Prates like a child of flowers and love in the white 

moonshine. 

The arm that bears the goblet is warm and round 

and fair, 
Touch it, Lover! taking that cup of nectar rare, 
And through thy quickened pulses a wild, fierce flame 

will flare. 

But, as thou drinkest deeply, thy startled soul shall 

shrink, 
('Twas ever thus, Lover!) from lees upon the 

brink 
That stain the fever-stricken lips Love's long sweet 

draught would drink. 

Deep in the amber goblet lie Doubts and Jealous 

Fears 
That whisper of another, beloved of earlier years, 
Who gained the dearest kisses the tree of first love 

bears. 

Once a voice of gentle tenor spake in accents low, 
Vibrant with pain and sorrow: "Break the cup and go, 
I would not hold thee captive if the Past distress 
thee so." 

"O Love," replied the lover, of her fond heart the Cid: 
"The dead are dead forever, why raise the coffin lid; 
Who cares what mummy lieth beneath the pyramid?" 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 43 



THE BETROTHED. 

Her kinsmen stood beside her bier, 
The chieftains of her race, 

Slowly they turned as I drew near 
To gaze upon her face, 

And, checking the unmanly tear, 
Gave the stranser place. 

They knew me not, but un, the dead 
Knew well that Love was there — 

(A shadow on her brows of lead, 
A glory in her hair, 

She lay within her narrow bed 
Immaculately fair.) 

The steed that bore me to her side 
Was bitted for our flight — 

Had not this gentle lady died, 
clansmen dark as Night, 

Mayhap upon the heath, defied, 
Our blades had leapt to light. 

"Who may this stricken stranger be?' 
Her haughty kinsmen said— 

(The tapers flickered drearily 
Above her golden head) 

I sank beside her on my knee 
And kissed her lying dead. 



44 akuows of cupid. 



THE EDICT. 

Once Cupid, like a town-crier, 

Came down a village street, 
While columbine and sweet brier 

Blossomed beneath his feet. 

'Oyes! Oyes!" the cherub cried 
In youth's falsetto high, 
As merrily he turned aside 
To chase a butterfly. 

Trooping came Bros' worshipers 

To hear that edict read, 
And Jennie smiled, for Love was hers, 

While Annie's sad heart bled. 

Then cried aloud the God of Love: 

"To whom it may concern: 
On earth beneath, in heaven above, 

Where'er Love's altars burn, 

Now be it known" . . . .afar a bee 
Hummed where the sunbeams crept; 

A swallow, like a yacht at sea, 
Down the horizon swept. 

Upon the drowsy atmosphere, 
Bright discs of blue and gold 

Drifted o'er meadows brown and sere, 
Like tapestry unrolled; 

And Love's fair votaries, in despair, 

Saw Cupid then pursue 
A humming-bird through glint and glare, 

Darting, till lost to view. 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 45 



LOVE'S PiNIONS. 

To-night I bury Love, who stole into my life last 
Spring; 

The day I lose my iaith in you, he came on broken 
wing: 

"Ah, nevermore," he sobbed, "to soar with her above 
the sky! — 

A crippled god. . . .all lovers true will mock me halt- 
ing by!" 

Straightway I bound his shattered plume — it was a 
cruel wound; 

With pain and sorrow stricken sore, he sank to earth 
and swooned. 

Like a banished cherub roaming, he trailed in servile 

dust 
Wings that had brushed the gates of heaven on love's 

impassioned gust; 
But, — Oh, the saddest thing of all! — he never spoke 

of you, 
Though oft I saw a shadow steal across his eyes of 

blue; 
His little mouth would quiver as I kissed his golden 

head, 
And a broken voice oft murmured low: "I would that 

I were dead!" 

And so I bury Love to-night; his brow is still and 

cold; 
Yet if I dared that marbie form above my heart to 

hold, 
I do believe the breath of life would thrill in every 

limb, — 
But then, you know, he suffered so, oblivion's best for 

him. 
Unfalteringly I dig a grave by Lethe's dreary shore. . . 
Young Love on pinions bathed in light shall soar, ah, 

nevermore! 



46 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



A GARDEN IN SPAIN. 

There are tears within the eyes 

Of Isabel, 
Naught can stay the stifled sighs 

Of Isabel; 
Still and cold the lover lies 

Of Isabel. 

To the trysting place he came 

Of Isabel, 
On his lips the sacred name 

Of Isabel, 
In his heart the love-lit flame 

Of Isabel. 

'Twas the trysting-hour of nine, 

Of Isabel; 
In the garden was no sign 

Of Isabel, 
Of the slender form divine 

Of Isabel. 

The stars look down in quest 

Of Isabel; 
The red rose, oft caressed 

Of Isabel, 
Longs to lie upon the breast 

Of Isabel. 

But hark! the light footfall 

Of Isabel- 
She is coming to the thrall 

Of Isabel, 
She is coming to his call 

Of "Isabel!" 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 47 

So supple is the tread 

Of Isabel, 
The flowers have no dread 

Of Isabel 

Who standeth there, instead 

Of Isabel? 

Then the ambushed brother, pale, 

Of Isabel, 
Cried: "The name shall naught avail 

Of 'Isabel!'" 
As the steel fell, fell the wail 

Of Isabel. 

There are tears within the eyes 

Of Isabel; 
Naught can stay the stifled sighs 

Of Isabel- 
Still and cold the lover lies 

Of Isabel. 



48 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



MADELINE. 

sunny river flowing to the sea, 

Thy rippling laughter ever haunteth me, 
Like the low cadence of a half-forgotten melody. 

'Twas here we stood that quiet autumn day; 
The distant meadow, redolent with hay, 
Above thy babbling wave its sweetness sighed away. 

Oh, fair, and very fair was she, I ween! 
Many miles thou roamest, verdant shores be- 
tween; 
What fairer maid than Madeline keeps tryst in thy 
demesne? 

1 looked into her eyes and was content; 

What need of idle words, when thought was spent 
Beneath those deep-fringed lids in Love's sweet rav- 
ishment? 

'Twas long, indeed, 'twas very long ago... 
And yet, to-night, across the field below, 
She comes to me from that low mound where starry 
daisies grow. 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 49 



THE RIVALS. 

A gallant from hys ladye faire 

('Twas many yeares ago) 
Came blythelye down yon pathway where 

Ye elmes neglected growe; 
And, pausing in ye moonlight there, 

"Psyche loves me," murmured low. 

Ye whyte owle gazeth from her bower 

Unutterable woe, 
Upon each waxen-petalled flower 

Like tears ye dew-drops showe, 
As Rupert, by ye haunted tower, 

"Psyche loves me," murmurs low. 

Ye crickets in ye clover call, 
Hushed is ye fountaine's fiowe, 

A shadowe hangs upon ye Hall, 
A chilling wind doth blowe, 

As Rupert, by ye ivied wall, 

"Psyche loves me," murmurs low. 

Scarce hath ye whisper fallen when 

Outsprings ye ambushed foe, 
A flash of Steele, a crye, and then, 

Hys lyfe-bloode ebbyng slowe, 
Young Rupert, dying in ye glen, 

"Psyche loves me," murmurs low. 



50 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



A VISION OF DEAD DAYS. 

The vibrant chords of memory are thrilling low to- 
night, 

And haggard ghosts of days long dead sweep by in 
measured flight, 

While from those vague, dim-sheeted ranks come 
pensive spirits twain — 

A white-robed Day of Sunshine and a leaden Day of 
Rain. 

"O blithesome Day of Laughter! dreariest Day of 

Tears, 
Why stand ye on my threshold after all these bitter 

years? 
There is no sunshine in my heart, thou evanescent 

Day; 
I will not weep, unhappy One in Sorrow's vestments 

gray. 

"Yet for the love-light lingering, fair Spirit, in thine 
eyes, 

Nor less for ashen grief subdued that on that sad face 
lies, 

Thrice welcome to my hearthstone this dark, tem- 
pestuous night: 

Now Sorrow seat thee on my left, and Joy upon my 
right. 

"Thou radiant thing of kisses, of dreams and vows 
and sighs, 

Out of the mist of doubt between, bid Madeline arise; 

I swear to thee, by that dear Past, my even pulse will 
race 

Not swifter, though she lieth in a lover's fond em- 
brace." 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 51 



Then the bright Day of Gladness looked forth with 

fair brows bent; 
The storm lay sobbing on the moor, his fury broken, 

spent ; 
Dense shadows gathering on the hills repelled her 

keenest gaze, 
As she passed on gleaming pinions in the whirlwind 

of dead days. 

"O Grief," I cried, "naught, naught may hide that 

fair, false face from thee; 
Though a new love flush her cheek like wine, ah, 

what were that to me?" 
Out of the mist of doubt between, rose a vision dark 

and dread, 
And there, heart-broken on her bier, sweet Madeline 

lay dead. 



52 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



IN CLOVER. 

There was a field of bearded grain, 

There was a bank of clover, 
And every blade in that domain 

Was some sweet floweret's lover. 

Oft from the mill beside the hill 

A maid came lightly roaming, 
When, strange to say, a lad alway 

Would saunter through the gloaming. 

Once, as they wandered slowly by, 

Across the listening barley 
Swept the low whisper and reply: 

"I love you, Ruth!" "Oh, Charlie!" 

With love each flower heart was stirred, 
With love the lithe young grain was teeming- 

On petal lips that whispered word 
Trembled mid dew-drops gleaming. 

Then every blade in that domain, 

A floweret bending over, 
Repeated low that old refrain: 

"I love, I love you — Clover!" 



ARROWS OF CUPID. 53 



PHANTASY. 

I dreamed a dream, a sombre dream, 
Tliat merged in leaden monotone 

Things which are and things which seem — 
The vapor and the dim headstone. 

In that pale counterfeit of sleep, 

I wandered far upon a way, 
Through ancient forests dark and deep, 

Leading down to an ocean gray. 

Upon the shores of that still sea, 
(That bitter sea of sighs and tears), 

I met, beside a withered tree, 
The dead love of my early years. 

Helen they wrote upon her grave: 

"Helen," I cried, " Oh, flee this shore!" 

A dead face rose on every wave, 
A murmur thrilled the forest hoar. 

But she who said Love never died 

Heard not the cry of Love supreme, — 

Paused not when, kneeling by her side, 
Love kissed her shroud in that strange dream. 

By that dread shore I sobbed aloud: 

"Love dies! Love dies! Alas, Love dies!" 

While every spectre from its shroud 
Looked forth with vacant, soulless eyes. 



54 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



TO A HUMMINGBIRD. 

Bright Cupid of the garden-close, 

In flower hearts thy rapier thrust; 
For thee the lily pales — the rose, 
Bright Cupid of the garden-close, 
Thy cruel wound awaiting, glows 

With rapture that perfumes the dust; 
Bright Cupid of the garden-close, 
In flower hearts thy rapier thrust. 



ARROWS OF CUPII). 



MADELINE'S SLIPPER. 

Her slipper is a tiny thing, 
With beauty overflowing; 
Light as a swallow's curved wing, 
Her slipper is a tiny thing, 
Where pixy lovers lilt and swing 

When jealous winds are blowing; 
Her slipper is a tiny thing, 
With beauty overflowing. 



56 ARROWS OF CUPID. 



RONDEL. 

The lady of my dreams 

Is marvelously fair; 
Supernal brightness gleams 

In meshes of her hair. 

Fleeing the noontide's glare 
For lustrous night, she seems 
To float upon tne beams 

Of Luna in mid-air. 

She lies by crystal streams 

In a lily-laden lair; 
On ocean's dim extremes 

She flits with ankles bare: 
The lady of my dreams 

Is marvelously fair. 



BOOK THREE. 



SONNETS. 



MARDi GRAS. 

I. 

As beats the sullen surf with muffled roar 
When Proteus, the blue wave at his knee, 
Sweeps with resplendent train, afar to lee 

Of some bright isle, disporting swift before 

The startled nymphs and naiads of the shore, 
Enraptured subjects, hoarsely shouting, see 
The courtier train sweep by like ghosts that flee, 

While flaming torches streak the night with gore. 

Entranced the rabble stands like Red Sea waves 
By Pharaoh's chariots split in twain, 

Till the long line of illuminating slaves 

Hath passed, then, rising uncontrolled again, 

Like ocean booming through his narrow caves, 
Up the high street sweeps on the sounding main. 



GO SONNETS. 



II. 

As sate the Lady of the Masque in state, 
In English manors high enthroned of old, 
Above the royal purple, green and gold, 

Sits Beauty on the balcony elate. 

While glowing pageants of Love and Hate, 

Of Peace and War. and all that brave men hold 
In honor, at my lady's feet unfold 

Like flowers that bloom in gardens of the Great. 

The pinions of the famed, red-tipped with fire, 
The bleeding sword that dreams of War alway, 

The throbbing chords that hover round the lyre 
Of some sweet singer of an elder day, 

O Lady of the Masque! with deep desire, 
Will haunt thee, though afar thy footsteps stray. 



SONNETS. 61 



III. 

Whence come the frowning warriors and the sages, 
The fairies, dragons, gnomes and buskined wights, 
The troubadours, who sang of love's delights 

Amid the glamour of departed ages? 

Obscure they live on history's dull pages, 

Sometimes we see them in fond Fancy's flights, 
But lo! immortal on these gala nights, 

Love loves again and war the warrior wages. 

As fades the memory of a pleasant dream, 
Hand in hand the Beautiful and Sublime 
Sweep by to join the full ranks of the Past, 
Where deeds heroic of Dark Ages gleam 
Down a dim vista, while remorseless Time 
Sleeps on his scythe before a temple vast. 



62 



WHERE MANON LESCAUT DIED. 

At twilight wandering o'er a barren field, 
Where spectral winds, with perpetual moan, 
Swayed to and fro 'mid grasses overgrown, 

Startled, I paused and stood with tense nerves 
steeled, 

For meshes of the vibrant reeds revealed, 
In hollow, weird, heart-rending monotone, 
A cry as of a soul bereft, alone, 

That echoed there forever unrepealed. 

Methought the Chevalier, with broken blade, 
There knelt by Manon dead, and still that cry 

The reeds (which shuddering stooped and laid 
Their cool lips on his forehead tenderly) 

Sobbing, repeat at twilight in the glade 
To gentle winds that glide like mourners by. 



WHEN MILLET BEGGED. 

"How ebbs and flows this restless human tide! 
On every wave a haughty visage shifts 
Before my pleading face, then turns and drifts 

Slowly to sea, while Hunger throttles Pride. 

Last night, in fitful sleep, for bread she cried, 
Smiling the patient smile that, in the rifts 
Of soil, at even-tide, for all His gifts, 

Jacques turns to God from harvests parched and dried. 

What if 'Pity me' stuck in my throat, and so 

They know not her distress, for whose dear sake 
I beg? O sir, pass not unheeding by!" 
Accursed be Tie who gave for alms a blow — 
If he thirsteth. that thirst may nothing slake; 
If he hungereth, hungry may he die! 



64 



TITANIA'S TRESSES. 

The shimmering sunlight flutters at the bars 
Of gold, that let no prisoned glint depart: 
An artist might forsake his loved Art 

To catch that sheen, illusive as the stars; 

A soldier might forswear the 'horrent wars, 
Forget ensanguined fields with glory fraught, 
In greater glory of those meshes wrought, 

A judge, ensnared, appeal to Code of Mars. 

In Nature all that's beautiful is bright. 
And what is brighter than refined gold? 

The maid whose brow serene like wings of Night 
A purple splendor softly doth enfold, 

Turns, heart-sick, from the unremittent light 
Of that warm sun-burst suddenly unrolled. 



65 



TO MADELINE. 

There is a legend of Creation's morn, 

That our proud race was formed of lowly dust; 

The good, the brave, the beautiful, the just, 
The sage, whose ample brow, in marble scorn, 
Frowns, the idler and the frivolous to warn, 

The thin-lipped, hawk-eyed soldier, whose bronze 
bust, 

Even as his good sword, is tinged with rust, 
Of indistinguishable dust were born. 

Thou too, but of the dust which primal stars, 
On glowing axes in the clash of spheres, 

Scattered through ambient space from Saturn, Mars, 
And all the pagan host of warring peers — 

Thou too — but of the dust of crystal spars 
That once bedewed the earth like angels' tears. 



66 SONNETS. 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

As when some dazzling odalisque, her eyes 
Behind a fleecy veil downcast, subdued, 
Sits at a lattice high, with love imbued, 

The garish Day, light clad in vapor, lies 

Enmeshed in shadows of the azure skies; 
Approach, O Infidel, with footsteps rude, 
The dreaming beauty, in her solitude, — 

Straightway she veils her face in mist, and flies. 

Where vague blurred confines of the listless seas 
Are merged in woodlands arabesque beside, 

The prowling tide leaps round the dim Day's knees, 
As the tamed lion of the harem's pride 

Fawns on his mistress, when the Giaour she flees, 
In misty corridors afar to hide. 



Le/C. 



TO MADELINE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. 

A lonely shepherd once, amid Judaean hills, 
Saw in the East a star refulgent rise, 
And gazing there in steadfast sweet surprise 

Felt all his being, 'raptured, thrill as thrills 

My pulse when every vein with ardor fills 
Beneath the liquid glory of thine eyes — 
Beneath the lambent lustre there that lies 

Like sheathed lightning that unsheathed kills. 

As that bright orb drew worshipers afar, 

My spirit follows thee through field and mart: 

Lead on! Beyond the breakers moaning on the bar, 
O'er darkling seas without a chart; 

Thine is the power to call from star to star 
My weary soul to thine, to thine my heart. 



68 SONNETS. 



BESIDE A MOUNTAIN LAKE. 

Behold, this desolate dark hour of morn, 
A hectic flush upon her visage gray, 
Comes like a hunted thing to die at bay, 

In mute despair, beside this mountain tarn: 

Afar I hear the huntsman's silver horn, 
Across the level lake a slender ray 
Of light falls like a sword blade hurled away, 

And through the thicket leaps a doe forlorn. 

The mist, in broken columns, up the hills 
Is marching like an army put to rout; 

The cool brook patters past the drowsy mills, 
In widening circles springs the trout, 

While Day, the hunter, swift-pursuing, kills 
The hectic Dawn upon the gray redoubt. 



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